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Bad intel.
That's what it always comes down to when these missions go off the rails.
Maria Hill has seen it all too often on the other side of the screen and has even dealt with the fallout herself, but never before has she been on the receiving end of a mistake made by someone else. Someone who's supposed to be on the same side, no less.
She coughs, wet and painful, and it trails off into a wheeze. She doesn't know how long she's been lying in this filthy alleyway—and if she doesn't die from blood loss, it'll be from one of the many diseases seeping into her bloodstream.
It feels like it's been seconds. It feels like a lifetime.
At some point between her fleeting moments of consciousness, a presence appears at her side. They're saying something nonsensical to her addled brain, but the tone of the words is calm. Steady. Something she can hold onto.
Not an enemy.
There are hands pressing into the place where the bullet shredded through her stomach, and she gasps when sudden pressure spikes her pain to a thousand, instantly clearing the fog.
"Where's the target?" Maria forces through gritted teeth, trying to turn her head, but all she sees are alley walls now darkened in shadow.
Then, her gaze drifts up to meet piercing green eyes.
The Black Widow. SHIELD's newest recruit. After reading about all the things she's done and all the headaches she's caused SHIELD, Maria had serious reservations about letting her into their ranks.
But Nick Fury didn't agree.
And now, that same woman is holding Maria's life in her hands and doesn't seem to be letting go any time soon.
"Gone," the Widow says, as casually as discussing the weather.
"What?" Maria tries to smack away the hands holding her insides together, but her attempts glance off ungracefully, slippery with blood, and her arms flop back onto the concrete. "What are you doing? Go after him."
Of all the circumstances Maria imagined her blood staining the Black Widow's hands, she admits this hadn't even made the list. She winces as the pressure increases, and a groan tears through her lips.
"Quit moving, Hill. I'm trying to save your life."
In hindsight, she blames the blood loss. Or the frustration at being rendered fundamentally useless. Or just her stupid brain, which thought it would be a good idea to reply, "Why? Got tired of taking them?"
It startles the other woman, which manifests as a tiny twitch of a finger that Maria wouldn't have noticed if those hands weren't pressing into her.
The answer that follows catches Maria equally off-guard.
"Yes," says the Widow.
Natasha, Maria's mind provides. She heard Barton call her that in the mess hall when they stole a table for themselves in the corner, away from all the other agents who didn't want anything to do with them. Maria remembers the subtle softening of her eyes when he used it—Natasha—like the woman wasn't used to letting anyone close enough to hear a diminutive of her own name.
"Extraction in five," Natasha supplies, quirking an eyebrow. "Try not to die before then."
Maria coughs. "Why didn't I think of that?"
"Shut up."
Through the haze, Maria takes note of the tight press of Natasha's lips and the crease between her eyebrows, bordering something close to worry. She always assumed the Black Widow wasn't capable of such things; words like heartless and cruel come to mind, a blackened stain on the woman's image that all SHIELD agents seem to share.
Of course, Maria has never been afraid to admit when she's wrong.
"Thank you."
Natasha's eyes widen, only slightly and just for a split second, before it's gone. The sigh she releases is almost fond, her lips twitching in amusement. "What did I just say?"
"I know, I know." Maria swallows down all the pain and the nausea, bracing herself through the agony of another breath. But she needs to drive this point home, and she refuses to look away when her lips form around the words, "Thank you anyway."
It feels like a lifetime, the way they stare into each other's eyes.
Natasha's hands are still tight on her stomach, sealing in her lifeblood. Maria thinks of the other things those hands are capable of—how they could reach inside her and finish the job with the kind of ruthlessness detailed in those Black Widow reports, or how they could let go entirely and witness the last breaths Maria would ever take.
They do neither of those things.
This is the closest they've ever been, and Maria can count the freckles across her cheeks and over the bridge of her nose, speckled like stars in the night sky. Or fireflies, like the forest behind her grandmother's house on those warm summer nights.
Maria reaches out to touch, but she barely manages a twitch before her hand slumps back down.
"Don't. Move."
"M'not," Maria mumbles.
"Liar."
Her vision begins to go dark, and there's shouting and hurried footsteps at the entrance to the alley.
But even with all the chaos and the noise and the panic of her fading consciousness, a softer voice cuts through, flooding her with relief. "Don't worry," Natasha murmurs, as calming as a lullaby. "I've got you."